


How to Get Laid in a Bed

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Human Disaster Matt Murdock, M/M, a lot of thoughts about sex and a little sexy action, cameo: claire temple, cameo: foggy nelson, cameo: karen page
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Frank and Matt don't only go after bad guys, they also go from horny to feelings.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 18
Kudos: 114
Collections: Fratt Week, Marvel Fluff Bingo





	How to Get Laid in a Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Frattweek's prompt _dark_ and Marvel Fluff Bingo's prompt _feelings accidentally revealed_.
> 
> And once again, at the drop of a hat (a... _horny_ one *cackles*), [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel/pseuds/PixelByPixel) rose to the occasion. You're my true hero ♥

It only happens in the dark.

It only happens when they work together and it doesn’t go the way Red wants: people die, people aren’t saved. Well, in Red’s opinion, Frank should be saved too, welcome Jesus into his heart or some shit, so it rarely goes the way he wants. Red wants to save everyone, even the guy who doesn’t want to be saved, but Frank’s not buying what he’s selling.

It makes Red upset, furious, overflowing with rage. Frank’s got to admit it turns him on to see the altar boy so full of sin. Red’s always angry, and it’s not all the righteous anger of the Bible, no. He wants to fight everything and everyone, all the injustice in the world and then some: crooks and dealers, rapists and muggers, killers and abusers, corruption and white-collar crime.

Sometimes, it doesn’t work. Sometimes, the kidnapper kills the kidnapped, or Frank snaps and shoots an asshole dead that Red wanted to bring to justice. Sometimes, the Fisks of the world get out of prison, and they’ve got to start all over again.

And always, always, Red blames himself, silently. Frank knows. _I should have guessed_ , Red thinks, _I should have heard. I should have known. I let them get to me_ ; _I wasn’t quick enough, good enough_. He rarely says it out loud.

But Red lies to himself too, so out loud, he blames Frank: _Why did you kill him?_ he asks. _Why didn’t you wait for me?_ He’s not wrong: Frank killed; Frank didn’t wait. It's just Frank doesn’t care the way Red does. They call him the Punisher, after all, so he punishes. That’s his thing, you know? That’s what he does.

And it infuriates Red.

At first, it annoyed Frank, then it amused him. Now, it turns him on, because Red is so alive when he’s incensed. He’s on fire, and then he does things like shove Frank against a wall, or knock him down and straddle him, pin him to some dirty cement roof. It starts as fighting, every time. But then it changes.

Frank has fond memories of that first time near the docks; they’d just emptied a warehouse and Red was pissy about something or other; Frank can’t remember what. Doesn’t matter. There were a few punches to the stomach, a few kicks – enough to hurt, not enough to injure. And somehow it turned into dry-humping in a dark corner, Red’s thigh between his, Red’s hot panting in his neck, the fabric of his stupid mask catching on Frank’s own stubble, everything smelling like sex and blood.

It had been hot as hell.

And then Red took off like a bat out of, well, hell, leaving Frank lying there still breathing hard under broken light bulbs, with come in his pants and a big, stupid grin on his face. He remembers feeling the stretch of it, remembers thinking it had been a long time since he’d smiled like that. Or come in his pants, for that matter. He’d forgotten how uncomfortable it was, but it made him feel young and silly again.

It happened again a week later, then again, then again; then it became a sort of habit. A thing they do, always in the dark, always without words. Red’s the one to start it, and he’s the one who leaves as soon as they’re done, like he’s ashamed of it. He probably is; Frank isn’t. It feels good, doesn’t hurt anyone. Well, maybe it hurts Red, the way he’s running away right after.

But Frank’s not going to ask; he’s not the guy’s shrink. Or priest. Does he confess what they’re doing? Does he tell his priest about his little boy pajamas, about punching shitbags’ faces at night? Who knows; Frank sure doesn’t.

He wishes he could see it, though, see what they’re doing. Somehow, Red always finds the darkest corners; it’s like he’s got some sort of radar for these things. Maybe he can hear the electricity, or maybe it’s luck. But the noises Red makes, like they’re torn from him against his will, like he doesn’t want to let them out but they still fight their way out of his throat, his mouth… yeah. Frank wants to see that, too. He bets Red looks real hot. But Red doesn’t want to be seen, so Frank has to make do with the noises, the hot breath on his skin, the hot, hard dick he can feel through Red’s pants, in his hand.

It’s plenty already, and Frank’s pants are getting a little tighter now that he’s thinking about it. He can’t help it; he’s been waiting above a target for an hour already, his scope on a building where a Taiwanese gang is meeting. He’s had time to think, and Red is late. They’ve got to act tonight, stop the deal the Taiwanese are making with the Guatemalans.

Well, maybe he can go in alone; he doesn’t need Red, right? Either he gets it done on his own, or Red gets there, sees Frank’s started without him, and gets mad about it. And, well, Frank kinda likes a pissed Red; it’s honest, and Frank’s way past soft and gentle. Hot and honest, that’s good enough for him. Maybe this time, once they’re done, he’ll say, _Why the hurry?_ or just, _Catch your breath first, Red_ … but he knows he won’t. This thing, it is what it is.

Frank climbs down his perch, and he starts shooting.

The job doesn’t go as well as he’d have liked.

The goons they’ve posted as guards are better armed than Frank expected, and while he’s making progress he’s also facing more firepower than he’s equipped to deal with. He’s got to take and empty the weapons of the guys he’s pumped full with lead; his own mags are empty already. Point and shoot, point and shoot; Red’s not here, and Frank’s got no qualms about killing, so he kills. It’s efficient and safer. Penny and dime.

But when he’s finally one room away from where the deal’s taking place, he gets shot; two bullets hit his vest dead center and he staggers back behind the wall. He's pretty sure some ribs are busted, and he hopes he hasn’t taken more damage, but it's not like he can stop and check right now.

He grits his teeth against the pain, and rushes out again – only to stop dead in his tracks. All the lights just went out, and for a few seconds everything is silent.

He knows what’s coming. Everyone here does.

Daredevil’s MO’s pretty well known by now; if the lights go out, you gotta be ready to eat your own teeth. That's how it is.

Frank leans back against the wall, and waits.

“Frank. Frank!”

He grunts and blinks open his eyes. It’s pointless; it’s still pitch dark in here. Of course. “Red?”

“What are you doing here, taking a nap?” His hands are everywhere, on Frank's face, his arms, his sides. “Shit, they got you!”

It’s dark and Red’s touching him, tearing at the fastenings of his vest. Frank knows how this goes. “You were late,” he says.

“Had to deal with something. Come on, up with you.”

This is _not_ how this goes. “What, no sex?”

Red’s hand freezes on his biceps. “You’re bleeding,” he finally replies. As if that ever stopped them before.

“So?”

“So we’re getting out of here before the cops find us, and then I’ll stitch you up.”

Uh. He’s not bleeding that bad, is he?

“Yes, Frank, you are.”

Aw, fine. Red keeps one hand vise-like on his arm and leads him in the dark; they go down some stairs, around some bodies, and finally they’re out. Frank's not quite sure how long it takes, but after going around some buildings and through a basement or two, Red leads him up another flight of stairs, outside on a fire escape, up a roof, down a ladder, and then they’re in some stark apartment.

Shit, it’s Red’s; it’s his place. He can see a white cane folded on a table, the red glasses dropped on a pile of thick folders. Braille, he thinks. Red steers him to a couch, tells him to wait, and then everything's blank.

“Will you stop pacing?” A woman's voice.

Frank swims out of a molasses-like state and starts taking stock of his surroundings. They're not familiar, _that_ he can tell; everything else is fuzzy and his brain sluggish.

“He’s waking up.”

“See? I told you he’d be fine.”

“He was bleeding!”

“I’ve seen you in worse states; it never seems to stop you. What’s so special about that guy?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh huh. Is he the reason you asked me for an STI test?”

“ _Claire!_ ”

The smell of antiseptics fills Frank’s nose; he can feel the pull of stitches on his side and his arm.

“Anyway, it shouldn’t have happened; I was late and he went in without me.”

“Then he’s as much an idiot as you are.” He can feel a stethoscope on his chest.

Frank cracks open his eyes; the woman looks down at him and her mouth quirks up. She’s pretty.

“Thanks,” she says. “And you, mister, are a mess.”

Red’s face appears above him, above the couch. Frank’s _on_ the couch, he realizes, and Red is standing behind it while the woman is sitting by his side.

“Yeah, Red.” Frank clears his throat, not that it changes anything. “You’re a mess.”

He’s changed into sweats and his hair is a damp rat’s nest, but the worst is his face. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, and Frank’s pretty sure that, blind or no blind, he’s seen a lot of ghosts. It shouldn't rattle him.

“I don’t think Claire was talking about me.”

She sighs, and Frank watches as she shakes her head and closes her bag. “You’re both a mess. There, happy?”

Red walks around the couch and stands there, awkward. “Thanks, Claire; I owe you. Again.”

“Well, at least no one died. This time.” She glances down at Frank, then back at Red. “You know how to pick them, M… ike.”

“He knows.”

“Right. You brought the guy here; I guess he does.” She runs her fingers through Red’s hair, a quick and familiar gesture that makes something sour in Frank’s mouth. “You take care, all right? I don’t want to – you take care.” She raises on her tiptoes and kisses his forehead, picks up her bag, and leaves.

Red just stays there, like an idiot.

“Should go after her, don’t you think?” Frank says. Well, croaks. He sounds like a toad after a bender.

That sort of shakes Red out of his funk, except he doesn't go after her. He goes to… a sink, opens the faucet, fills a glass with water, and comes back with it.

“Thirsty?”

Frank ignores the water. “Red, who’s she?”

“She’s… Claire.”

Fine. None of his business, anyway. “Right. Okay, guess I’ll be out of your hair now.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Says who?” Frank pushes on his elbows, tries to sit up. It doesn’t go as well as he’d like this time either; it’s not his day. Night. Whatever.

Red sets the glass on the coffee table and grabs Frank’s shoulder and his wrist, somehow managing to avoid the worst wounds. They maneuver a bit and finally they’re sitting face to face, Frank on the couch and Red on the table.

“You should stay here tonight; I’ll help you to the bed.”

The bed, uh? “What about you?” From what he can see it looks big enough for two, but Frank has his doubts about Red’s ability to share without having some sort of freakout.

“I’m fine.” The reply comes too quickly. Frank waits. “I have work to do,” he finally adds, waving a hand at the folders Frank remembers spotting earlier.

Well, if Red wants to suffer, that’s not Frank’s problem; he’ll take the offer for tonight. He’s going to have to ask for help to get to the bed, though. Frank goes to scratch his face and realizes that he’s caked in blood; that’s what’s itching. Bed sounds great, but he could do with a cleanup.

“You got a shower, Red?”

“You’re not supposed to do that right now, not with your wounds.”

“Don’t you have plastic wrap?” Wouldn’t be the first time he’d use that stuff to get a real shower.

“No.”

“Really? Don’t tell me you never get hurt.” Frank knows he does.

“Forgot to buy more. I’ve got some washcloths though, and there’s a folding stool in the bathroom.”

Fine, sponge bath it is. He doesn't want to itch for hours while shedding flakes of dried blood all over Red’s sheets. “It’ll do,” he says, and Red slips under his arm and hauls him to his shower stall.

It’s hard to say anything about the room; from what Frank can tell it’s like the rest of the apartment: it’s not new, but it’s clean. There’s no damp, moldy smell anyway. Red unfolds the stool and pushes him on it, goes out and comes back with a shirt and some pants that he leaves on the counter. He drops a fresh towel over the pile and some washcloths before he goes out, closing the door behind him, and Frank’s left in the dark.

Red forgot to turn on the light, of course. He doesn’t need it.

Frank sighs, but he decides he knows where his legs and his head are, right? The rest he can probably find by touch. First, though, he’s got to take his remaining clothes off. Red or his friend removed his vest and his boots, but he’s still got a torn shirt on and his pants, which are stiff with blood. He can do that in the dark.

He can’t do that, in the dark or otherwise. Well, he can, but if he does he’s going to rip his stitches open, and that’s not the plan. _Fuck_.

“Frank?”

“What?”

“Do you need help?”

Fuck no. Frank sighs, long and deep. “Yeah.”

Red slips in, his footsteps quiet. Frank remembers he’s wearing thick socks that look more like what Maria would wear in bed on cold winter nights than what one would expect on the _Devil’s of Hell’s Kitchen_ ’s feet. A sliver of light is coming through from the main room, from the lone lightbulb that Claire probably switched on; there are regular flashes of colors too from the billboard outside.

“Can’t even get my clothes off,” Frank says. “Not without popping stitches. I bet your friend wouldn't be happy if I did, you know?”

“She’d read you the riot act, yeah. But she wouldn't be surprised.”

Red wiggles into the shower stall and helps Frank take his shirt and pants off; he pauses for a second then tugs Frank’s boxers down and off too. He steps out, takes a cloth, wets it, and starts on Frank’s face. He’s quiet, and Frank doesn’t want to disturb the silence. It’s pleasant, almost meditative; Red gets out to grab some bucket that he fills with warm water and continues: wet, mop, soap, scrub, rinse, from the head down. Some water trickles down Frank’s back from his scalp, and he shudders.

Red’s careful to avoid the freshly-stitched wounds, but he’s not as careful with splashes; Frank’s pretty sure a fair amount is ending on his sweats.

Frank tugs on the fabric. “Take these off, Red. You’re getting soaked.”

Frank can sense the hesitation, but finally Red steps out and his sweats land with a slightly damp thwap on the closed hamper. Frank uses the opportunity to wash his groin on his own, grimacing at the stretch to reach the bucket; he doesn’t want Red’s hands on his already half-hard dick. Well, no, he can’t say he doesn’t _want_ that, but… yeah.

Red steps back in, and Frank tries not to think that they’ve done all sorts of filthy things to each other, but he’s never seen him naked. Red’s naked now, but he can barely see the outline of his body in what little light is coming from outside the room. It’s frustrating.

It is, also, hot.

 _Not now_ , he tells himself. _Not the time_.

But now he can’t stop thinking about it, about being naked with Red in a space too small for two grown men to keep any sort of distance from each other. Warm water drips down his chest to his balls and he knows, he just knows, that Red’s dick is right here in front of him.

It’s just too much.

He bends a little forward and lets his forehead brush against Red’s stomach. It turns to stone as soon as he makes contact, and Red stops moving for a second. Frank got a reaction; he feels emboldened. He shifts just enough to drop a kiss there, let Red feel his lips.

“Frank…” His voice is strangled, and Frank grins against the skin.

He does it again, drags his nose along the stomach, maybe adds a bit of tongue here and there; the cloth Red was holding falls on the tiled floor with a loud slap. He’s not doing much, just mouthing along Red’s abs, maybe dipping a bit lower from time to time. Red’s breathing grows faster, so Frank sets his hands on Red’s hips and gently, but firmly, pushes him against the wall.

“Frank, what…”

“Ain’t it obvious?”

“I…”

He swallows whatever he wanted to say when Frank finds his dick and kisses the tip, then breathes on it. He can feel the goosebumps on Red’s skin, the fine tremors of his muscles; he’s sensitive. Frank grins; it feels good.

“You okay there, Red?”

“Frank, you can’t…”

“I can and I will, unless you tell me not to.” He waits. “Are you saying no?”

“No, I… I mean, yes, I…” Red’s hands land on his shoulders then jump away when one brushes against one of Frank’s wounds. “Sorry,” he breathes out.

Jesus. Frank’s hardly done anything and he sounds like he’s only a few seconds away from coming; he’s never been like that before. Well, they’ve never been naked in the dark before. Frank feels for Red’s hands and sets them on his head; the fingers curl around his skull right away. “Keep them here, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Frank keeps his on Red’s hips, makes sure he's not going to move from the wall, and starts with a long drag of his tongue on Red’s dick. He makes it slow and wet, and Red’s tugging at his hair like he’s about to come _right now_ already.

It’s definitely doing something for Frank, too. He does it again, then on the other side, adds some lip action, and Red’s wheezing and pulling his hair; Frank has to stop and focus on his own ribs for a few seconds so he doesn’t embarrass himself. The pain grounds him enough he can start again and this time he goes to town; he hasn’t given a blowjob in ages, but it’s not something you forget, apparently. Red’s alternating between quiet grunts and high-pitched, cut-off moans until he takes his hands away and Frank has to stop what he’s doing.

“What?”

“You, you should, I should,” but Red can’t finish. He sounds so close, it makes pride swell in Frank’s chest, under the cracked, maybe broken, ribs.

“Been wanting to do that for ages. Don’t like it?” He sounds like he likes it.

“You have?”

“Oh, yeah.” Frank makes sure every one of his exhales hits Red’s dick, just because it makes his stomach quiver. Frank’s that kind of asshole, you know? “How many times did you suck my brain through my dick, Red?”

“Uh, I don’t…”

“Not complaining. Just wanted to reciprocate.”

“You don’t need…”

Jesus, that guy. Frank doesn’t bother replying; Red’s just gonna argue some more and Frank’s got better things to do. He really gives it his all now, and that shuts Red up just fine.

This time, Red doesn’t run away as soon as they’re done. He just slides down the wall and pants for a while, so Frank waits. He could do with taking a moment himself, really. He’s still high on endorphins, but he’s gonna crash soon and he’s pretty sure all his wounds are going to be yelling at him soon enough.

“You alright?” Red finally asks.

“I’m not the one pretzeled on cold tiles, Red.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m not dead; that’s what matters.” He wished for it, at one point; since then he’s found a purpose. “Can continue to go after lowlifes.”

“Frank…”

“I’m not going to stop.”

“I wouldn't expect you to.” Red stands up. “I, uh. Do you need a hand?”

“Nah, I’m good. Legs should be easy.”

“I didn’t mean your legs.”

“Oh.” Frank shakes in head, even if it's only for himself. “No, that’s… done.” It really didn’t take much, with Red making those noises.

“Done? You – oh. Right. Um.” He steps out of the shower stall. “Right, good. I’ll… leave you to it.”

“Sure. Hey,” Frank remembers to add. “Can you switch on the lights when you go?”

Drying off and putting on the sweats Red left him are a challenge, but he manages. He spends a minute looking at himself in the bathroom mirror and takes stock: his chest is about to become one giant bruise, he’s got neat rows of stitches in a few places, and his eyes are sunken. He’s probably going to look even worse tomorrow, but nothing he hasn’t lived through before. It’s not that bad, really; his ribs are going to hurt for a few weeks and he’ll have to be careful, that’s all. A good night’s sleep will be a good start.

He steps out of the bathroom and finds Red sitting cross-legged on the couch, listening to something on his computer. The glass on the coffee table is empty, and there’s an open folder next to it. The pages there look blank, but when he gets closer Frank can see the bumps on them; it’s Braille, of course.

Red takes an earbud out and turns his head in Frank’s direction.

“Hey,” he says. He looks awkward, like he doesn’t know what to say or how to act. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m good.”

Red’s fingers are fidgeting with the cord of his earphones like something’s eating at him. “It’s pretty late.”

“Yeah.” Frank looks at the bed, then back at Red. “I’m going to crash. You should sleep, too.”

“I will.”

“Bed’s big enough; we can share.”

“I’ll… think about it.”

“Cool. Night, Red.”

Frank shakes his head and switches off the light; the neon billboard outside is enough to see by as he goes to the bedroom. He lies down on the bed, because there’s no reason not to enjoy what’s on offer. Frank can sleep on the floor if he has to, sure, but why would he turn down the offer of a perfectly – damn, are those sheets silk? He rubs his fingers against the fabric. Yes, they are. Looks like Red can treat himself sometimes.

He hears Red leave the couch and start pacing, then close the bathroom door that Frank had left ajar out of habit, for ventilation. He didn’t take a real shower, so it’s not really a concern. Then Red starts pacing, going to the window and tilting his head, outlined by the billboard; then he’s sitting on the couch, then jumping up and going for another folder that he leaves open on the table when he goes back to pacing.

Frank sighs. “What’s got you so antsy, Red?”

“You should be sleeping.”

“Not with you rattling around like a rat in a cage.”

“I’m not that noisy.”

No, _he_ isn’t; but Frank can still see him, and he can hear the couch leather creak and the papers rustle. “Just come here, yeah?”

Red comes to hover in the doorway. “You should be sleeping.”

“I’ll sleep fine once you stop moving.” Red’s giving off too much nervous energy right now for anyone to sleep around him.

“I don’t want to disturb you.”

“Jeez, Red; it can’t be worse than now.” Frank holds out his hand and hopes it won’t make Red turn away. He’s a contrary asshole, after all.

But after some wavering, he finally joins Frank and sits on the bed. “You should put some pillows behind your back,” he says. “It would help.”

“Yeah?”

Red busies himself directing Frank to move this way and that, stuffs pillows under him, and nods. “There; you sound better. Your ribs, I mean.”

Yeah, maybe it’s not as painful for now. “Thanks. You done now? Why would you get fancy sheets like that if it’s not to sleep in them, eh?”

“Cotton’s scratchy,” he replies, but he finally gets in bed.

They’re not touching, of course, but the bed’s large enough it’s not uncomfortable. Red seems to have finally quieted down, and Frank falls asleep soon after.

It’s still pretty early when he wakes up, but the sun’s up already and light’s hitting Frank in the face. He doesn’t think it’s what woke him up; he’s slept through worse, but he uses the opportunity to get up and use the john. Everything hurts, but nothing more than he expected. He finds his pants on a chair in the kitchen and gets his phone out; it looks battered, but it’s still working. 7:33, it says.

He should get out of Red’s hair. He doesn’t really want to. The guy’s still sleeping, and after last night – the assist, the nurse friend, the offer of a bed, and yes, the sex too – Frank doesn’t want to be that kind of jerk. It’s a weekday and he’s probably got lawyer things to do, and Frank wonders if he should wake him up.

He goes back to lie down on the bed instead, watching Red sleep. It’s almost strange to see his face in the daylight; it’s like he’s looking at a whole new guy. Not the attorney from a few years ago, not the altar boy he shot in the helmet, not the man who takes on the assholes of the world with only his fists. Not the Red he’s had hot sex with after a mission, not the dazed-sounding Red he blew last night in the shower. That man, Frank thinks, is all of them together, and that makes him… more, somehow. A whole instead of parts.

Frank’s not sure he likes that train of thoughts, but they won’t be redirected. He closes his eyes and waits for either sleep to come or Red to wake up, and when that happens he’ll leave.

When he wakes up again, Red’s gone. The sun’s moved enough Frank can tell it’s late morning, maybe early afternoon; when he looks for his phone he can’t find it. He leaves the bed with a groan, holding his ribs, and finally finds it, charging, near the big windows of the main room.

 _1:26 pm_ , it shows. He unplugs it and sees he’s got a message; he opens it.

_There is Ibuprofen on the shelf and food in the kitchen. You can use what you want, just put it back where it was when you are done. Your car keys are in your coat near the front door. Stay as long as you need._

He doesn’t recognize the number, but he doesn’t need to; it’s pretty obvious who sent the text. He saves it under _Red: Official_ so it doesn’t get mixed up with Red’s latest burner, steps in his boots, and leaves the apartment. He doesn’t want to stay here.

A steady regime of pasta, take out, painkillers, and rest for a few days, and Frank’s feeling a bit less like microwaved shit. He washes the clothes Red loaned him, amused at the large COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY printed on the sweatshirt. He’s got to take them back to Hell’s Kitchen; stealing clothes wouldn't be a good look for the Punisher, right?

He considers calling ahead, then decides against it. Red was weird around him the last time, weirder than usual anyway, and Frank’s not in the mood to run after the guy. He’s gonna drop in on him, give daytime Red something to be mad about that’s not sex in the dark with a killer.

He stuffs the sweats in a bag, decides against taking a gun with him, and walks to the nearest subway station. No reason to waste time in traffic when he doesn’t have an arsenal to lug around, yeah.

He finds their office easily enough. There’s no plaque outside; Karen told him they haven’t been there for long so he’s not surprised. There’s just a piece of paper with LAW FIRM written on it, stuck near the bell. He rings and he’s let in right away; he can spot the camera above the door and he guesses Karen must have recognized him.

He goes up to the first floor, knocks, and pushes the door open. Karen waves at him from her desk, and he sees a few chairs in what serves as the waiting room. He walks to her desk and she looks up at him, eyebrows raised.

“Long time no see,” she says. “Looking for an attorney or a PI?”

“You got your license?”

“Working on it; I’m here three days a week and the rest of the time I intern with Jessica Jones.” Frank’s eyebrows go up; that must be a wild ride. “Oh, and some freelancing for the Bulletin, too.”

“You’re working a lot.” But then again, she’s always been driven; he doesn’t doubt she’ll get where she wants to be. “I just got something to return to, uh, you know. Him.”

She smirks at Frank. “Right, _him_. They’re with a client in Foggy’s office; it’s not going to take much longer. So, I heard you’ve been busy, lately; anything you can tell me?” Somehow, a pen and notebook have appeared in her hands.

“Nah, nothing special.”

“Same old, same old?”

“Yeah. I’ll just,” and he points a thumb at the chairs behind him.

“Sure, go ahead.” She looks a bit frustrated by his lack of details, but he doesn’t really want to involve her in his own shit more than she’s already been; she deserves better than that. Maybe she likes it, if she works with the likes of Red and Jones, but Frank won’t add to it. As it is, she puts herself in enough danger all on her own.

Frank sits on a slightly wobbly chair and closes his eyes, his head against the wall; he can hear muffled voices coming from another room, probably Red, Nelson, and their client. He’s gonna hold out the bag, tell Red thank you, and leave. Or maybe he could… nah. They’ve sucked each other’s dick, yeah, and they’ve fought together, but they’re not buddies. They’re just… guys, who help each other out. Yeah, that’s it. Neither of them is looking for anything else.

The sound of a door opening makes Frank open his eyes, and he sees Red standing there, his mouth falling open. He’s spotted Frank all right. Nelson hasn’t; his back is to Frank and he’s shaking their client’s hand.

“We’ll call you as soon as we’ve got more, Mrs. Cohen! Right, Matt? Matt?”

Red shakes his head then nods, still distracted. Frank feels kind of proud. “Yes, yes, of course.”

Nelson walks her to the door, turns to Red looking ready to ask what’s wrong, but he sees Frank first.

“You…!” Frank wiggles the fingers of one hand at him. “Are you here for Matt or for Karen?”

“Eh,” he replies. He’s not going to play favorites, you know?

But Red’s starting to look pissed again. “I work here!” he hisses.

“Brought back your clothes,” Frank says, pointing at the bag on the seat next to him. “I washed them.”

“Your clothes? Frank Castle’s got your clothes, Matt?”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

Karen giggles at her desk and taps her pen on her desk.

“Don’t you dare,” Frank tells her.

“No story there.” Red frowns. “Frank’s were unsalvageable, had to cut them off of him.”

“Do I want to know why, Matt?” Nelson seems to be hesitating between worry, amusement, or a mix of both.

“I got kinda hurt; Red helped me out.” Red’s looking more and more agitated; what’s up his ass now? “So thanks, Red. Owe you one.”

“Owe me one? _Owe me one?_ ” Red’s hand makes a wide arc in the air. “I got you to my apartment, and then what did you do? You passed out! I had to call Claire! And when you left in the morning you didn’t even leave a fucking _note_ , Frank!”

“You can’t _read a note_ , can you?”

“You have my number but you didn’t call! And I had to change the sheets because they smelled like you, and the bathroom smelled like sex for days, and I…”

Then he stops; he looks like a deer in headlights. Frank smiles.

“Um,” Nelson says. “That’s… new. Is it? Is it new? Matt, _is it new?_ ”

“It’s not like that,” Red tries.

“Holy shit. Frank ‘Murder’ Castle, Matt?”

“Middle name’s David,” Frank says mildly.

“ _So_ not the point! Matt, come on, say something!”

“It’s… not like that.” Well, now Red’s a broken record. “We just, uh, work together. Sometimes.”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s called, _work_. Hm.”

“ _Karen!_ ” Red’s turning interesting colors, and Frank’s smile widens. It feels good, to smile. He smiles more often around Red, and he finds it’s a welcome realization. He likes it. “We just… help each other out.”

Karen guffaws, and Nelson snorts. “Giving each other a _hand_ , is that it, Matt?”

“It’s not…!”

“Not like that, right, we get it. Just night… _jobs_.”

“We don’t meet during the day!”

A muffled _Oh my god_ comes from Karen’s desk; she’s buried her head in her arms and her shoulders are shaking.

“Wanna go grab a coffee?” Frank asks. “I promise I won’t laugh at you.” Not too much, anyway.

“Is that a date? Are you asking him out on a date? Matt, did you put out _before_ the first date?”

“I didn’t _put out_ ,” Red grits out.

“And it’s a sexist phrase meant to shame women who have casual sex,” Karen adds primly.

“Doesn’t scream casual to me,” Nelson replies. Red just looks more and more like he’s about to jump out of the window to escape them. “But hey, Mrs. Cohen was our last appointment today; feel free to take him off our hands, Frank. He’s going to be useless now anyway.”

Red makes a strangled sound and Frank takes pity on him. He stands up, taps Red’s arm, and says, “Come on, Red. Coffee date it is.”

“Wait!” Karen dashes into a room behind her desk and comes back holding a coat and a cane. “We don’t want him having to come back here after your _date_!” She waggles her eyebrows and Frank could swear Red can tell, the way he glares in her direction. “I’m sure you’ll have better things to do then.”

“You know I’m going out tonight, Karen.” She opens her mouth but he continues to speak over her, probably on purpose. “And Frank's not coming because his ribs are still fucked up.”

“Hey.” Frank totally could, if he wanted to. He doesn’t have to get up close and personal like Red does, okay? He totally could come. He’s a sniper, all right? He _could_.

“Or,” Nelson says, “you take a break. Can’t believe I’m advocating a date with Frank as safer than your nightly ninja-ing for the greater good and your greater harm, but… yeah, I am, actually. Go on, shoo!”

Nelson pushes them out and Frank lets him; it serves his purpose after all: after Red’s outburst, he definitely has questions. But once they’re outside, Red snaps his cane open and starts striding away from Frank. This won’t do.

“Where do you think you’re going, Red?”

He turns back and hisses, “Don’t call me that! Not out here in the open!”

“What? You’re wearing red glasses; you know that, right?”

“That’s what you call me when… at… you know what I mean!”

“Sure. So, know any place around here for that date?”

“We’re not going on a date.”

“Oh, yeah?” Frank catches up to Red and leans in a little, ribs or no ribs. “Look, I think we’re overdue for a little chat, yeah?”

“No.”

Wow, it’s like Frank’s the mature one here. Maria would laugh at them. “Didn’t ask for your opinion, did I?” Frank nudges Red’s arm, but it doesn't get him any reaction. “Let’s go to your place, alright? So you can put those away at least,” he adds with a shake to the bag with Red’s clothes.

Red frowns, but lets Frank steer them to his apartment; once they get there he pretends he’s on his own and folds his cane, goes to his bedroom, changes into the rattiest sweats Frank’s ever seen – and he’s seen some pretty ratty sweats over the years – and thick socks, and plops himself on his couch.

“You done?” Frank asks mildly.

“Fuck off.”

“Not even started, Red.”

“You can’t even call me by my name!”

“I don’t want to. Don’t want to slip when we’re out there and you wear that stupid mask. Might out you, yeah?” Red nods, still wary. “And you can out yourself real easy, like you just did with Nelson and Karen.”

“So what, you’ve come to laugh at me? Gloat?”

Seriously, what’s wrong with the guy? “No. Just, you never seemed to be the type to be disturbed by my… smell.”

He can see Red’s jaw working, but the stubborn idiot keeps quiet.

“Look, not gonna lie; the sex we’ve had after busting out some assholes has been pretty great. But you’ve always fucked off as soon as we were done, yeah? Fine by me, but it doesn’t gel, you know?”

“I thought that was what you wanted.” Red waves a hand between them. “Never acknowledge it, just… do it.”

“I’m acknowledging now. I’m not sure you are.”

More jaw action, but no words.

“What do you want, Red?” More angry silence. Frank sighs. “Fine. You got a coffee maker around here, right?”

He turns away to look at the kitchen and yes, there, an old-fashioned French press. It’ll do. He fills the kettle then sets it to boil, looks into the fridge for the actual coffee, and busies himself looking for mugs, sugar, milk, cream, maybe some cookies while the water heats. He does find mugs, so he brings them to the coffee (ha) table, then the French press once he’s poured the water in.

“Your fridge’s pretty empty.”

“What’s it to you?”

“We could have a dinner date instead; I could have cooked something.” Red scowls and Frank is getting pissed. “What is it, Red; are you ashamed? What’s your goddamn problem, that I’m a guy? That I’m who I am? Good enough for a quick fuck in the dark, but nothing else?” He stops, takes a breath, and lowers his voice. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Red finally says. “I’m just… scared.” He clams up and raises his knees under his chin, wrapping his arms around them.

“Scared? Scared of what?” Don’t they call him The Man Without Fear, in the papers? Frank waits. He can see Red’s fighting with himself, trying to say words that won’t come. He can be patient.

After he’s checked his watch to be sure, he pushes down on the piston and pours the coffee. Red’s visibly following his gestures; his head is cocked like when he’s listening to his beloved city.

“I’m sorry I don’t have any sugar left,” he finally says. “Or milk.”

“S’fine. I take it black.”

“Right.” He’s quiet again, but Frank can almost see the wheels turning in his dumb head. Then, at last: “The guy who trained me when I was at the orphanage, Stick… he used to say that getting attached was going to get me killed, that I’d never be a warrior if I let myself… do that. He wasn’t wrong.”

 _A warrior?_ Frank mouths. _When I was at the orphanage?_ What the hell?

“That's why he left, in the end. Because I was too attached to him, and he knew I wouldn’t be a good enough soldier.”

“How old were you?” He can’t help asking; this is too fucked up.

Red only shrugs, unconcerned. “Around eleven? He was right; I was too attached. I guess it saved me from his, uh, organization. I don’t know what to call it.”

“Jesus, Red!” He can’t imagine the fury that would have seized him if anyone had tried that with one of his kids, but Red had been an orphan by then.

“It is what it is. He taught me things that saved my life, everything I use today to do what I do. He was an asshole, but he… I think he got too attached too, and it scared him. So he left. But you know,” Red continues, “he wasn’t lying about that. Everyone leaves, and sometimes they die.”

Shit. Frank doesn’t have an answer to that. He’s lived it, too.

“Later on I met Foggy, and with him everything was different. He was, is, the best friend one could hope for, you know? I don’t deserve him.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I was an asshole; I let him believe I was dead and then I pushed him away. He got shot because of me; he… I mean, there’s a reason people leave, too.”

“Nelson’s still around, though.”

“I really don’t know why. Everyone just… leaves at one point, or dies, or both.”

“Like that woman on the roof?”

Red smiles, but it’s a bitter smile. “She did both, and she even died twice. Overkill, right?” He rubs his eyes, but Frank’s seen the sheen on them. “But that’s Elektra for you; she never was one for half-measures.”

“Sounds like she was special.”

“Yeah. she was.”

Frank sips some of his coffee; it’s scalding, but he needs a moment before speaking. “I can’t promise I’m not going to die, Red. But I _can_ promise I’m as much of an asshole as you are.”

“You keep saying you don't really care if you live or die.”

“You keep acting like you don’t care if you live or die.”

“Foggy says I’m addicted to it, that I’m an adrenaline junkie getting my fix by cheating death.”

“Nelson’s smart.”

“Hey.” Red shifts to sit cross-legged on the couch and reaches for his coffee.

“You spend too much time in your own head; that’s your problem. C’mon, Red, drink your coffee and we’ll go find someplace to eat, yeah?”

“Still gunning for that date?”

“Thought you’d like that better than me gunning down people, right?”

Red’s face does a funny thing, but Frank heroically refrains from laughing. “I think I’m not very good at, uh, casual. I’ve tried, but… it’s never quite worked out the way it’s supposed to.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” The outburst at the office was kind of a giveaway, after all. “I’m not either.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not 20 anymore, you know? I’d like to do it in a bed sometimes.” And with the lights on, so he can see Red’s face. He’d like to not always wake up alone, to bicker over who gets to eat the last bagel once in a while. They already have their fights and they compromise when they have to, and they know each other well; sex in a bed isn’t such a stretch, Frank thinks.

“You're not _that_ old.”

“Aw, thanks. Asshole,” he adds as he gets up to shove Red back into the couch.

Red only grins in reply. “Yup, that’s me. But I’m sure we can accommodate your old bones, Frank.”

“Broken. My broken ribs.”

“Cracked.”

“Still hurts like a bitch.”

Red stands up and gently puts his palm flat on Frank’s chest, right over where it hurts. “I’ll be careful.”

“And what, you’ll stop arguing with me?”

“Hm, probably not.”

“Pull your punches?”

“Never.”

“Good.” Careful’s fine for his ribs, but Frank’s not one for tiptoeing around everything else. “We’ve got time before dinner, yeah?”

Plenty of time, in fact, to prove sex in a bed isn't just for old folks.


End file.
